


bad day

by polkaprintpjs



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Dissociation, Gen, Humanformers, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25930897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkaprintpjs/pseuds/polkaprintpjs
Summary: every breath pulls your attention to the movement of your lungs and chest and away from whatever it was you were thinking about before. you just hover in the fuzzy quiet, the clicking fan and shitty ac and passing cars and tick tick ticking blending together until you aren’t sure if you can hear anything at all.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> :shrug emoji: had a bad day

your head hurts, but it's a soft and distant ache. unreality is the word that’s floated through your mind more than once today and you poke at it, idly. 

every breath pulls your attention to the movement of your lungs and chest and away from whatever it was you were thinking about before. you just hover in the fuzzy quiet, the clicking fan and shitty ac and passing cars and tick tick ticking blending together until you aren’t sure if you can hear anything at all. 

your foot hurts. you wonder why. 

another breath, in. 

another breath, out. 

it’s so quiet. what’s wrong with your foot? you get the coordination to check, eventually. 

your face is pressed into the bed and both your hands are trapped under a sharp shoulder and your hips are twisted the other way. you force your head to turn enough you can shift an elbow, prop youself up until you tip over onto your back. a new pain, you notice. your spine and pelvis haven’t appreciated the contortions. 

your foot isn’t twisted anymore but it hurts now, not the vague absence of sensation you interpreted as pain. 

your eyes aren’t focused. 

if they were, you could see the ceiling, bland white with the subtle sort of texturing that you hate looking at because your swimming eyes never can catch the pattern- but your eyes aren’t focused so you don’t see it. 

buzz buzz. 

breath in, breath out. 

you let your head flop over to see your phone lighting up with more notifications. you blink a bit. no one should be texting you. what did you do. it takes longer to grab your phone than it had to roll over, but you power through the steps, each muscle group activated one at a time to pick the phone up off the bed, hand aching down your wrist almost to the elbow. 

your eyes still aren't focusing so you don’t force it, tap out a noncommittal response to the one message you manage to skim before you feel yourself fading. you drop the phone back to the bed. 

you can feel something wet on your neck and you realize you’re crying. you’re so frustrated- you slept enough you ate enough you talked to friends you got tasks done what is WRONG WITH YOU. 

you ride the frustration long enough to wonder what the fuck is wrong with this body, wrong with you. you put in the necessary things and function is supposed to come out, coins and a vending machine. 

it doesn’t last though. it never does. 

when you remember to blink again it’s dark and you don’t know how long you’ve been laying here. it’s easier, this time, to pick up your phone and check it. the screen pulsates in front of your eyes and you drop it again. 

the door’s open, you can tell because it’s cold and you haven’t had it together enough to pull the blankets up. 

soft cool hands smooth over your face and press to the back of your neck and before you know it you’re bawling, high noises shaking right out of you. she shushes you and you try so hard to bite it back, but pain’s never helped push your emotions back. 

you take a big, sobbing breath, then another for luck and hold it. 

“whirl,” you hear her say, alarmed, but you hold. 

your chest hurts a little but you’re not shaking as hard. 

you hold, just a bit longer to be sure, but big warm hands wrap around your ankles and you twist, jerking your head up and let the breath out to be sure. 

cyclonus watches you carefully as you gasp for air, your chest and throat and lungs grateful for the oxygen. next to you, tailgate gentles you back down and smoothes your choppy hair back from your face. 

she gathers the rest from your nape and you can feel the gentle tug as she ties it back with a hairtie. the bed rocks and shifts as cyclonus crawls on. she spreads the comforter over the three of you and tailgate murmurs a thanks to her from you both. 

you aren’t as hazy anymore, the ticks are separate and distinct again. you squint at the far wall with the pretty blue clock. 

when you blink again tailgate is asleep, curled as much around you as her tiny body can. cyclonus is awake behind you, you can hear the rustling of her book as she reads. 

you close your eyes on purpose this time and rest. 


	2. Chapter 2

you’re swaying. 

you don’t notice until the sink is suddenly on  _ that _ side of your vision when before it was there. you shake your head. slowly, then harder when it just makes you less oriented. 

when you can see again (actually register your surroundings instead of hoping they exist) you’re looking into the mirror. 

you’re held a minute, frozen with a sense of not me not me noT ME WHO IS THAT- until someone turns you away.

cyclonus keeps her hand on your shoulder, uses the other to wet a washcloth and carefully clean your face. you let her, the scape of the fabric and the quickly cooling water pulling you back. 

you resist when she turns the faucet to cold, try to step away, some instinct telling you to  _ get  _ **_back_ ** but she shushes you, fills the glass on the counter, holds it for you to sip. once you understand she’s just giving you water you realize how thirsty you are, how dry your whole body feels. 

you try to take the glass but your hands are shaking too badly, and with  _ your _ hands any shakiness is a disaster in progress. you gulp the water and try to follow when she pulls it away. when you’ve caught your breath she offers it again. 

once you’ve drank your fill, you’re aware of other needs, but it’s a long walk across the bathroom. she sees your indecision and leads you over anyway, doesn’t watch while you relieve yourself. 

you’re standing again and suddenly you feel that dizzying pressure on your skull. your eyes aren’t focusing, or maybe they are and you just can’t process the input. 

you blink away the haze and you’re on the couch, tailgate leaning against you. 

she’s got a plate on her lap, apple slices and cheese cubes and you’re not hungry but you can’t look away so maybe you are. she feeds you slowly, the tv humming in the background. 

you chew and swallow and feel each piece go down. apple then cheese then a sip of water, apple then cheese. water. 

the rhythm helps. 

you think you’d told them so, once, but you aren’t sure. there’s a horrifying moment where you look over at cyc in the loveseat and realizing you don’t own a loveseat, your walls aren’t cheerful yellow they're a dingey white and this isn’t your apartment. 

your breath sticks and there’s an instant where you can force yourself up, the shock cutting through the daze or you can drop further down until none of it matters. in the end, though, you don’t decide because tailgate’s talking. 

“whirl, whirl just breathe for me, it’s all right. you stayed over last night, remember?” 

you don’t remember but you trust her, slump back into the cushions. she and cyclonus look at each other for a minute before she puts the empty plate on the coffee table, scoots down the couch so she has enough room to tug you down. you go easy, drop your head on her lap. 

you can feel the grease in your hair where it rests on her cheek and usually you wouldn’t care but you can smell the detergent tailgate likes to use and knows these pants are clean and you’re dirtying them. 

you sink into the hot flush of shame and don’t catch what cyclonus says, her voice low and safe. 


	3. Chapter 3

your skull doesn’t pound anymore, at least.   
you’re curled up on the floor, crushed into the narrow space between the wall and the toilet, but hey. at least your head doesn’t hurt.   
your phone’s on the counter, you’re pretty sure; not because you recall leaving it there, but because you don’t even want to look that direction. you wiggle your toes in your boots, which is about as far as you can move, cramped like this. your head doesn’t hurt.   
you’re dizzy, so dizzy, but your head doesn’t hurt.   
you let your head tip to the side, rest against the wall.   
you know better than to lean on the porcelain right now- blood’s too easy to clean and your skull is fragile, for all you’re known as hard-headed. the wall’s safer, softer. harder to clean, easier to argue yourself out of.   
your eyes are on the far wall, but you don’t see it; it’s a blurry smudge you’re fairly certain exists. your phone buzzes on the counter and you flinch, cramming yourself further back.   
you try to, anyway, head bouncing off the wall behind and narrow shoulders protesting the narrower space.   
when your breathing is under control, you flip from fear to rage.   
boom. just like that.   
you flex your hands and stay put.   
you can’t think past the roaring in your ears and the buzz buzz buzz but you know in the same way you know that red means stop and green means go that if you get up you’ll regret it.   
there is something you’ll break and shred and fuck up and you’re staying right. here.   
it’s hard, though, you can feel yourself shaking and you press your head against the wall, hard and steady, so you don’t smash it.   
it’s hours but probably only minutes before it passes and you can breathe normally instead of panting like a fucking dog.   
buzz buzz buzz.   
cold washes down your spine and through your skull, starting at the base of your neck. you can’t breathe right, deep gasps that don’t seem to help your closing throat. the base of your skull aches and burns and you’re pretty sure that’s a symptom of oxygen deprivation. maybe you’ll pass out.   
maybe your heart will pound itself to death and you’ll die right here.   
no dice.   
when your eye clears enough you can see again, there’s a smear of red on the toilet tank and you close your eye.   
it’s knocking, this time, that shakes you out of your head.   
you can’t understand the words, but you don’t need to; you’ve been here too long, you need out.   
you need to get out and get away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao this one was less 'had a bad day' as 'had may bad days in the past and was recently forcibly reminded of them and now im pretending very hard its not a bad day'

**Author's Note:**

> im on tumblr @megatronismegagone


End file.
